


At the Campfire

by a_prince



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_prince/pseuds/a_prince
Summary: “I see, I see, sleepyhead,” Dorian grabbed under Olivière’s arms and heaved him up so that he could rest on Dorian’s chest. “Indeed, the work of the Inquisitor is never finished.” Usually a display like this was avoided in front of his peers, especially in front of the likes of Solas and Vivienne. But in that moment, the two did not really care if they had an audience.--A short oneshot of my Male Lavellan and Dorian, after a long day in the Hissing Wastes. Short, sweet, pure fluff.





	At the Campfire

**Author's Note:**

> An introductory piece! I may slide this into a future, lengthier work, but for now, I'm posting this here to get myself used to doing so on the site. Thank you if you were curious enough to check this out!

The group sat in silence for awhile, eyes fixated on the campfire, eating their meals. They had begun to enjoy the quaint clanking of silver-against-wooden-bowl, until Olivière, who had rejected eating, drew breath in - it was an exasperated sound that made everyone turn to him in alarm - and descended himself into the sand. He lay there like he was waiting for someone to cover his grave. All of the running, battling, Venatori killing, and rift closing was displayed on his face, a look of defeat. He was exhausted. Slowly, his half closed eyes lingered to Dorian, and the Tevinter formed a soft grin.  
“I see, I see, sleepyhead,” Dorian grabbed under Olivière’s arms and heaved him up so that he could rest on Dorian’s chest. “Indeed, the work of the Inquisitor is never finished.” Usually a display like this was avoided in front of his peers, especially in front of the likes of Solas and Vivienne. But in that moment, the two did not really care if they had an audience.  
His fingers grazed the elf like he was an antique dwarven vase. He kissed his matted hair softly. Olivière closed his eyes in bliss, trying with all his might to bury himself deeper in Dorian’s hold. This is definitely what he needed, he thought, as the mage started rubbing his ears.  
“You’ve beaten enough Venatori into submission today. You can rest after you’ve eaten something.”  
Dorian picked up his wooden bowl, mixed the contents a bit, then set it in Olivière’s hands. The elf did not move.  
“Hmm,” The puzzled man picked up his spoon and Olivière laughed. “-What?” Dorian smiled quizzically, brow raising a bit.  
He received no answer. After a moment, Dorian scoffed. “Has the Lord Inquisitor become so comfortable in his position of power that he now asks his partner to feed him?”  
Olivière laughed again. “That is not at all what I was asking!”  
“Oh, Maker,” Vivienne rolled her eyes, and stood up. “I’ve had enough of this display. Goodnight dear. Gentleman.” She took her bowl and kneeled inside her tent.  
Solas sighed. “We made good progress today. I’ll take my leave as well, Inquisitor.” He discarded his bowl and left the two alone.  
Olivière looked up at Dorian and chuckled again. “Now that you’ve proposed the idea.. Would you actually fall through with it?”  
“My pride has already been damaged. This is only deepening a crack already formed.” Dorian slid a generous portion of his meal onto his spoon and lifted it to Olivière’s mouth.  
The elf ate, and Dorian sighed deeply, in an attempt to not wilt over his offended dignity. He was having a lot of trouble not doing so, but if it was for the Lavellan, who sat utterly content, delicate, warm, Dorian could survive.  
Tomorrow would mean more Venatori hunting, more rift closing, and more tomb searching. The work of the Inquisitor was never-ending, always full of danger. Still, the elf stayed his charismatic, happy self, though Dorian knew inside of him was a whirlpool of anxiety and dread. Knowing that he was the one catalyst to Olivière’s poise gave the Vint assurance that he was meant to be where he was. He looked at the Inquisitor, eyes closed in bliss, and let all his pride go for just that moment. Pulling him ever closer to his chest, he silently made a promise to protect him as much as his Tevinter behind allowed.


End file.
